I HATE PETER ON THE BUS TO WORK

I hate you peter. You and all your coffee. I would be perky in the morning to if I had coffee but I am too tired to make it. I bet you have one of those machines that will make it for you. So you are probably rich. Why are you taking the bus if you have a machine that makes coffee for you?

-Lambasting Latte Lovers in Lakewood

I HATE PETER ON THE METRO

Peter, I see you every morning on the Metro train. You sit there in your power suit, with your checkered collared shirt and solid blue tie, carefully scrutinizing that bible-sized hardcover biography of that boring ex-presidential appointee like it's your job, with your rimless eyeglasses and your undeserved sense of propriety. You can't be more than 23, but you act like every glance, every "excuse me" and every human interaction at 7 am or 6 pm is the most painful event your important day has to offer. You've got important things to do in your stupid Capitol Hill job at your stupid Capitol Hill office. That's why you stand directly in front of the metro doors when they open, why you stand on the left of the escalator when everyone is trying to get by, why you push through people, why you stand so close I can feel your hot breath on the back of my neck, why you take the open seat when old women are waiting, and why, when I sit down next to you in the only open seat on the train, you shudder and shirk away as if I've got the bubonic plague. I wouldn't want to infect you with the normal gene. God, I hate you. I hate you in the depths of my soul.

You're important. I get that.

What I don't get is, if you're so God-damned important, why you have to commute 45 minutes both ways every day in the worst display of directionless ire I've ever seen? If it pains you that much to rub elbows with the masses your boss represents, get in your fucking Lexus and drive to work from your overpriced, 24-hour gym and your little box condo in northern Virginia.

Oh yeah, that's right. You can't afford a membership, can't afford a Lexus, can't afford a condo (yet) and can't afford that suit dad gave you for Christmas. You work on the Hill. God, Peter, I hate you. But not nearly as much as you must hate yourself. Stick it out, though ... just two more years and you'll be in Law school, and then back working on K street.

-Passive-aggressive in D.C.

p.s., I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. I wish you would die. I hate you.

I HATE PETER AT 24 HOUR FITNESS

Hey, Peter. What's going on? It's been awhile. Did you think maybe I was starting to like you? I wasn't. Still hate you. And let me tell you why. Don't worry. I will keep it short and sweet. Unlike you (short and pungent):

I waited for the elliptical. I'm fairly certain that at least one of the 20 people already on the elliptical type which I was waiting for had been on the elliptical for more than 20 minutes. I did not walk up to each of their machines, checking to see how long he/she had been on the machine. I did not stand in front of someone who had been on the machine for 27.5 minutes of his 30 minute work-out huffing and puffing, with an obnoxious look on my face signaling either my highly inflated self-worth or my extreme constipation. I did not call over a fitness trainer to kick said person off his elliptical with one minute to go in his workout. When I was waiting for my elliptical, I just waited. I know that's a novel concept, but I'm sure next time you might be able to handle it.

I hope the rest of your workout went exactly according to your master plan, Peter. I desperately hope you were not one minute late to your 1:00 appointment with the ugly stick.

Good bye, Peter. I hate you. More than you could ever know.

-Hot and Bothered in Hollywood

I HATE PETER AT "UNNAMED CABLE NEWS NETWORK"

Oh Peter. How did you get this job? You are a producer of a cable news show and you apparently don't know the basics of producing or cable or news or television. All things you should know to have the title of producer, Peter, you don't know. I'm pretty sure with the title you have, you are considered staff. This means you have job security and health insurance and other nice little perks. You know what I'm not Peter, I'M NOT STAFF. No health insurance here. NO TUITION REIMBURSEMENT. Yet, you're asking me to do your fucking job because, well, you don't know how to do it.

In case you were wondering, Peter, it's not MY job to do YOUR job plus MY job. My job is enough.

Now had you sent an apologetic email asking HOW you go about doing your job and you were so sorry you didn't know how to, well, I still would've been annoyed that you are staff and I am not and you don't know how to do your job. But I would've given you a call and worked with you on the problem. Instead, you basically passed your work on to me.

And I would've done it too, because I'm a nice fucking person.

Luckily my boss stepped in to explain the situation and teach you how to do your job. She was nice about it because she's a nice fucking person too.

We're both nice fucking people and you Peter, you're a moron. But I'm sure you're a nice fucking moron.

-Mad in Manhattan

I HATE PETER IN THE COMMERCIAL CASTING OFFICE

Hey, guess what, Peter? You're a turd.

Also, you're grouchy. What's the big hairy deal, buddy? I showed up on time for the audition, early even. I had been memorizing "La Cucaracha" in it's native Spanish all afternoon. I'd been practicing butchering it in a thick southern accent, just like you told me to. I did everything right. So why were you mad at me when you completely changed the sides on me without telling me? Shouldn't I have been the one who's mad? You didn't call my agent to tell her you changed the script at the last minute, so I was no longer going to sing a Mexican folk song about Pancho Villa to advertise your new fast food breakfast burrito. I might be wrong, but I think that makes you as the as the villain here. So, don't you go into the audition grouchy and stand-offish with me, Mister. It's your job to watch a million actors a day read the same lines again and again. If you don't like it, you can just "butter my butt and call me a biscuit." Oh, did I say that too over-the-top for you? Maybe it's because it's an over-the-top line.

Kiss my grits, Peter. You're still a turd.

-Unhappy in Universal City

I HATE PETER AT BARNES & NOBLE

Peter,

I’ve never wanted to choke someone more than I want to choke you. I would rather have a sack of angry bees emptied down the front of my pants than have to listen to another one of your fucking stories. The customers hate you, and I have heard from more than one of our many bosses that they wish they could fire you just for being a jackhole. Stop inviting yourself to shit, Peter. Stop inviting yourself to live at Matt’s house. He fucking hates you too. No, I will not buy liquor for you, because first of all I don’t buy Zima for anyone, Peter, okay…?...and secondly, I don’t want the basic level of goodwill such a favor would create to taint my hopefully increasingly antagonistic relationship with you… Understand, Peter? I want to hate you; it gives my life meaning. Here’s a social rule that you seem to have missed: you can’t put someone’s number in your cell phone and promise to call them later when that person hasn’t given you permission to call him. I would rather have a woman screaming into a blowhorn held up to my ear following me and stabbing my thigh with a rusty screwdriver than have to endure you constantly following me around after the store closes. You should be euthanized; it would be merciful to you and everyone who has to listen to you. You should be placed in a large sack attached to a boulder and thrown into a lake or river. You’re fat, by the way, and your lips are abnormally large and reddish for a man.

-Riled up in Rochester

I HATE PETER ON THE DENVER BRONCOS

I hate you, Peter. I hate that your 1980s Denver Broncos teams thrice denied my Cleveland Browns their rightful place in the Super Bowl. I hate you and your horse face and your horse teeth. Every time I see your No. 7 jersey I want to shove whoever is wearing it. I hate your college, too. Stanford. Your mascot is a tree? That's so fucking weak. Weak like your 1980s Broncos teams' performances in all three Super Bowls. I know the Browns could have won one of those. Your team barely managed to score in those games. The only reason you finally won a Super Bowl in the 1990s is because the coach changed the offense so that you would hand the ball off 35 times a game. You are the most overrated quarterback of all time. If there were any justice right now, Bernie Kosar would be in the NFL Hall of Fame. Bernie Kosar's player rating on the old Madden classic teams would be 99. Bernie Kosar would own his own chain of car dealerships in the Denver area - just to spite you.

I hate you, Peter, so much.

Want ... to punch ... your ... horse teeth.

Sincerely,
O. Newsome of Cleveland

I HATE PETER AT THE M BAR

Hey, Peter, how's it going? Hopefully not so well. Because I don't like you.

Oh, don't get me wrong. I think you're funny. We all think your funny. Come on, audience, don't we all think Peter is a funny stand-up? Peter is obviously the funniest person in not only the entire bar, but also the entire Earth - a word I only know because you explained it to me. Which brings me to my second point. We are all stupid. All of us in the audience. We are morons. You, Peter, you are the smart one. Keep on with the intelligent comedy. But if you're going to, make sure to explain every joke to us, so that we understand it. There is honestly no way, we could ever understand your jokes if you don't explain them to us. Otherwise how would we have known to be offended when you used the term "sloppy pussy" multiple times within a second. Wait, "second" is bigger than "minute," right? I'm confused. But thank you for telling us we were all offended when you referred to a woman at the bar who obviously had a "sloppy pussy." We didn't know we were supposed to cringe in horror at the phrase. I guess we've been to accustomed to it in our daily lives. Also, thanks for telling us what to think and when we should think it. Let me just double check with you though:

So, when you told a drunken older gay man at the bar that he "obviously wanted to come up and suck on your cock," we are not supposed to sit in stunned silence because you verbally attacked a stranger in a blatantly homophobic manner, we are actually supposed to laugh and agree that the "queen" would love to "taste your prick?" Actually now I'm confused, because then you told us not to act like "we had never heard the term's rim job and golden shower" even though none of us were groaning or saying, "too far."

Okay, can we start over? I want to figure out how stand up comedy works.
1) The comedian tells a joke.
2) Nobody reacts.
3) The comedian tells the audience they obviously aren't as smart as him.
4) The comedian says something shocking and sexually-related.
5) Nobody reacts.
6) The comedian tells the audience they shouldn't be so offended. He's just saying stuff they say everyday.
7) Nobody reacts.
8) The comedian verbally abuses bar patrons.
9) Nobody reacts.
10) The comedian tells everyone he's the headliner and he gets paid more for writing television shows then anyone else in the audience will ever see in their life.
11) Nobody reacts.
12) I walk out before the comedian finishes.

Is this how stand up comedy works? If so, I'm in. I love it! I wish I could see you ever night! And punch you in your "one brown hole."

Sincerely,
Har-Har'd Out in Hollywood

I HATE PETER IN MY PANTS

Damn you Peter! What did I ever do to you? Sure, you’ve been beaten, whacked, jacked, stroked and rubbed out at my hand, but you and I both know those adjectives have double meaning in our case. I can’t believe you’d turn on me like this.

Remember how it used to be? We used to be so good together. When I needed you, you were there for me. Likewise, when you needed me (usually in the morning for some reason), I was there for you. You once stood so proud and tall. You were admired by many for your strength and resilience. You were solid as a rock. But now everything has changed.

I have pleaded with you, begged you, bargained with you and even attempted to drug you, but every time you refused to respond. So now, Peter, old friend, all I can do is hate you. If you won’t stand up, I won’t stand down. I don’t want to hear that shit about how I drink too much, thus thinning my blood to the point where you can’t do your thing. I don’t want you going off on my about my marijuana and steroid use and how they make things so hard for you. I want you to make things hard for me, asshole!

You’ve caused me to lose my confidence. You’ve caused me to lose my wife. You’ve caused me to be humiliated at The Bunny Ranch on HBO. Why did I ever sign that release form?

Fuck you Peter. I don’t ever want to see you again. In fact, that’s probably why I’ve gained all this weight – so I don’t have to ever see you again. Oh sure, I know you’ll always be hanging around. Fucking loitering and contributing nothing to society. Even if I could get someone to offer you a job, you’ve made it abundantly clear that you’re not interested so I don’t even bother anymore. I’d love to just cut you off from my life, but something won’t let me. I suppose there’s part of me that just can’t let you go, but that doesn’t mean that I won’t hate you forever.

If you ever change your mind perhaps we can get over this. I would like to someday come back to you, but things being the way they are, you have to come first.

Yours in anger,

I’m Potent

I HATE PETER IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD

Peter, I hate you around my neighborhood, you lazy, selfish sack of shit.

First of all, what the fuck are you doing with that mattress? Do you think
that if you put it out in the grassy area between the sidewalk and street
that the mattress fairies will whisk it away and leave you a dollar? That's
not gonna happen, you stupid prick. There is no mattress fairy.

Recently, the smell of rotting corpse was eminating from the garbage area.
Oh, how I hoped the stench was your own rotting flesh, Peter, but alas, it
was just some vast amount of shitty meat, probably venison, or elk, or
fucking guinea pig, that no one eats except you, because you're from Belarus
or Azerbaijan or wherever the fuck. Kudos to you for filling your (and
others') bins with decaying, bloody meat. And kudos for putting it out right
at the start of the heatwave. Magnifique! It smells like the fucking
holocaust over here.

And thanks for defacing every surface you can reach, asshole. OK, you have a
Sharpie. We get it. You seem to think you have something to say, but all you
put up is your name, or gang affiliation, or some meditation on the word
fuck. Like this week, when you cleverly changed the window decal at Carl's
Jr. from "Chipotle Chicken Salad" to a "Chipotle Fuck Salad." What a poet
you are, Peter. A true fucking wordsmith. I don't mean that. You're a piece
of shit.

-Not a Fan in North Hollywood

I HATE PETER IN MY HOUSE

I hate you Peter. Why are you even in my house? Who invited you? You make me anxious and you suck.

Last Sunday, when my wife inturrupted my bathroom solitude by telling me there were 15 of you swarming on our basement window, I didn't know what to think. When I saw you buzzing and falling out of my basement tile, I started to freak out. Peter, I know you probably thought I was overreacting by sucking you up with our vaccuum cleaner, but I wasn't sure of what else to do. You invaded my home and went after my wife and my cat. I had no choice but to go Charles Bronson on your thorax.

I finally felt a bit reassured after the fat exterminator sprayed you and your friends with the white fluffy powder, but he told me he couldn't find your nest. He told me that more Peters may be arriving over the next week or two, but that they were just baby Peters. Now, every time I see another Peter I smash him with a shoe and clean up the stain with a paper towel.

Peter, I hope you've learned your lesson from this. Stay in trees or garage overhangs or unused swing sets where you belong. Don't come into my home again. If I could somehow rape you, I would.

-Miffed in Minneapolis

I HATE PETER IN MY SWEAT GLANDS

Dear Peter,

I hate you. You are one hundred and nine degrees in September. You are the hot, rancid air of the devil's butthole.

Signed,
Gabriel Daniel Fahrenheit is Sweating in his Grave

I HATE PETER IN THE DELTA AIRLINES TERMINAL AT LAX

First of all, I hate you, Peter. Let's just get that out of the way. Now we can really get down to business. Why, Peter? Why? Why would you be so pompous and ingenuous? Do you not know by now that airplane travelers are stressed out? Do you not know by now that your airline intentionally overbooks flights? Do you not know by now that just by the very fact of having only one employee at your gate's service counter during a primetime flight on a Thursday night is not nearly enough help to deal with all the customers?

So, if you don't remember, this is what I said to you, "Thank you for getting me on the plane (the last seat), because I am the photographer for a wedding tomorrow." And if you don't remember, this is what you said to me, "I would think that if you were a wedding photographer trying to get to a wedding you would try to be on time for your flight."

That's really what you're going to say to me, Peter? Really? So you actually think even though I purchased the ticket three months in advance, it was my intention to show up late enough to nearly miss my flight? Have you ever considered that maybe, just maybe I meant to get there two hours early, but my roommate had to work late and she was my ride? And that I considered taking a shuttle service, or leaving my car in long term parking, but I didn't have enough money to pay for it? And that when we finally got through the unexpectedly bad 10:00 PM Thursday traffic, I walked into the terminal and found out all of your self check-in eticket computers were not working, so everyone had to be checked in by an employee? Did you ever think that maybe when your crappy airline overbooks multiple flights by at least 40 people each, it puts a high stress on the security lines and they can't get passengers through at the normal speed? Did you ever think that maybe that was why I was late?

Also, Peter, you have a fat face. And a man's haircut.

Sincerely,
Worked Up in Westchester

I HATE PETER IN MY BUILDING

I HATE PETER IN MY BUILDING

I hate you, Peter. I hate you because you don't pick up your phone
when I call. And I know it's your cell phone, so it's probably snug
in it's holster, clipped to your belt when you're sitting at your desk
at the printing company you work nights at. I hate you because you're
probably staring at my number when I call, and instead of facing
reality, you opt to go back to YouTube clips and stale office snacks.

All I want, Peter, is for you to get the cockroaches out of my
apartment. It's your job, as "apartment manager," (which, by the way,
I regard a ridiculous title) to comply with the requests of tenants -
as long as they are within reason. Wanting an exterminator to
fumigate my pest-infested box of an apartment is within reason. I
offered to call one on my own, but you insisted upon doing it
yourself.

And don't come knocking on my door, Peter, to scold me as though you
are some sort of mentor I've had over the years when I go above you to
our landlord, Peter Sr. You weren't "managing" your building, so I
took matters into my own hands.

And another thing, Peter? I hate that fucking white baseball cap you
wear all day, every day. What are you hiding under there? I know
it's not a brain, but perhaps it's the secret to making yourself scare
when convenient. I'd like a piece of that secret, because maybe I'll
apply it when it's time to pay rent. You -- yes you, Peter -- are an
asshole!

-Heated in Hollywood